Stryker
by Clara Bluescales
Summary: Hydra was able to brainwash and physically alter one man to turn him into a weapon...so what's to say they didn't do it again? (Contains Bucky)
1. Off The Strait And Narrow

_Well, here goes. My first Fan-fiction's first chapter. This starts what I hope will be a long list of stories featuring my favorite characters. Just a few notes: Stryker is in no way related to Marvel's William Stryker. She is a character that I created. This story will contain Bucky Barnes, but there's no character button for him (at least not that I can find). _

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><p><strong>December 31. 10:47 am.<strong>

I woke up and didn't know who I was, where I was, how I got there, or why I was lying on a hospital bed. I turned my head. A steady 'beep' emanated from the machines to my left. The green line on the electrocardiogram machine spiked regularly, and the IV line shifted as I moved. Suddenly terrified of what these unidentified people were pumping into me, I tore the IV out of my arm.

The machines set up a furious beeping as I set about tearing myself free from their confinement. A woman who I assumed was a nurse rushed into the room, saw me, and ordered me to lay back down. She was followed by two other nurses and a doctor. There were no windows. The door was my only option for escape.

I charged them, sweeping things off the table, and the startled nurses jumped out of the way. The doctor remained in the doorway, arms out in front of him as if to stop me. _As. If._

I feinted to the left, and he moved to follow me. His slight step over left him unbalanced, and I switched back to the right, shoving my arm into his side. He made a sound of pain as I hooked my foot around his ankle and sent him crashing to the floor. All while I was running out the door.

The hallway wasn't long. I took a left and sprinted past several other hospital rooms, and around a corner. _A window. I need to find a window._ I came to a T in the hallway and looked down both ways. Guards. Armed guards, from both directions. Crap.

They'll yelled as I turned to run back down the hall I had come from, deciding that a couple of doctors would be easier to subdue, but a tall, silver-haired man was coming around the corner. He stopped when he saw me. I kept running, sliding the scalpel I had grabbed off the table into my grip. This was still easier than going after the guards behind me.

"STAND DOWN, AGENT STRYKER!"

Unwillingly, I froze, every muscle in my body suddenly stiff, my back ramrod straight. I couldn't move, not a finger. I struggled to draw in breath as my body panicked, trying to escape the sudden paralysis.

"Commander Kane?" One of the guards behind me asked, his voice low and deadly.

"We're good here," the man in front of me, Commander Kane, I guess, said. "Dismissed."

The guards left quietly. I was alone in the hallway with the Commander, save for one doctor peering nervously around the corner. Kane looked me over, nothing escaping his sharp gaze. Not the hospital gown I was wearing, or the scalpel I had gripped in my hand. He gently pried it out of my frozen grip.

"Now, we'll have no more fighting, Agent." He said quietly, his voice oddly soothing. "You're safe. _Merken_, Agent Stryker."

My head suddenly cleared, as if a cloud I had not realized was there suddenly lifted, allowing me to see and think clearly. I remembered everything: who I was, where I was, what had happened.

"At ease, Agent Stryker."

My muscles relaxed, and I flexed my fingers, no longer gripped by panic. "What happened, sir?"

"You were injured after your last mission. Your plane was shot down. You've been in a coma for several weeks."

I didn't feel like I had been in a coma, but the doctors here were very good. I also didn't remember my plane getting shot down. Plane? My last mission had been here in New York...I never flew anywhere...and then there was that man...the one that had been so famil-

A sudden intense, burning, awful pain ripped through my head. For a moment my vision went white, and I cried out and fell forward onto my knees, head in my hands. For an eternal moment there was nothing but pain.

I opened my eyes, my vision still spotty. My lungs screamed for air, and I released the breath I didn't realize I was holding, taking great drags of air as I tried to recover from whatever had hit me. Groaning, I pulled myself up, using the wall for support. Kane didn't offer a hand.

"You need to learn to control that," he said after I dragged myself up to stand in front of him again. "You know this happens when you think about certain events. Learn to read the warning signs of an attack, and derail whatever train of thought you are on. Understand?" There was no concern in his voice. It was just the cold, hard voice of a man who expected to be obeyed.

"Yes, sir."

"Go get dressed. Meet me in the briefing room in 15 minutes. I have a mission for you."

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><p>Still wobbly, I started for my room. The base was large and confusing, but I knew it well. I moved like a ghost, people moving aside for me, never meeting my eyes. They knew what I was, and it terrified them.<p>

My room was a discreet door in an unpopulated hallway on the third floor. People were not comfortable sleeping or working near me. I unlocked my door via the thumbprint scanner and stepped inside. It was not much, and it was not home. A single bed sat pushed against the window, too small for even me to slip out of. There was one overhead light, and a set of drawers. A door opened onto the small bathroom. I set the second scalpel I had grabbed while escaping the infirmary on the table by the door.

Hanging behind the door was my uniform. Black pants and a black shirt, laced through with a form of Kevlar. Sturdy black combat boots, steel toed. All untraceable, custom made by a man I knew to be dead. I threw on the black jacket, also laced through with Kevlar, and covered inside and out in special pockets. The rest of my uniform was in the armory. Pulling back my light brown hair into a messy ponytail, I left the room.

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><p>I was in the briefing room less than a minute later. Kane sat at the table, watching me come in. A manila file folder labeled '<em>CONFIDENTIAL<em>' in big red letters sat in front of him. I stared at it, wondering whose face it would contain.

"Sit down, Stryker." Kane's grey eyes never left me. He pushed the file toward me; I opened it, staring at the face as Kane started talking.

"He's in D. C. Tonight, he'll be at a New Year's celebration at the White House, on the detail of this man." Kane reached over and flipped to a page in the file, showing me a picture of a tall, African American man wearing a long leather coat and an eye patch. "You're to take this bodyguard out with extreme prejudice, then get back to the rendezvous point. A helicopter will fly you out there in half an hour, so you may begin planning and setting up."

I didn't move, staring in confusion at the picture.

"Something wrong, Stryker?"

"No, sir. It's just…" I gently tapped the picture of the man I was going to kill, the red star on the man's silver arm. "He's one of ours."

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><p><em>OK, I know what you're all thinking. "Where are the other people she promised?!" I'm not lying to you, I swear! They'll all show up soon, like next chapter soon. I should have the next chapter by next Friday, but I'll put it up as soon as it's finished.<em>

_Please comment! I want to know what y'all think :) Thanks!_


	2. Fall Right Into The Trap

_I'm SO sorry it took so long to give you guys the second chapter! This week has been crazy busy. I want to thank everyone who read this story (119 views so far!) You guys blew me away! Thank you! I swear when I saw that people had read and commented on my story, I sat in shock for a god five minutes. And special thanks to **Chloe . Mills** who was the first person to comment, and also made me realize I left out an important detail. Stryker is female. Sorry about the way the name's written, that's the only way the site will let me put it in here. OK, so here you guys go, chapter two, featuring my favorite merry band of assassins! (See, I promised they'd show up.)_

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><p><strong>December 31. 11:13 am<strong>

790 miles away, not knowing that one of the world's deadliest assassins was aiming herself at him, Bucky Barnes stepped onto a sparring mat. The man facing off across from him was short and lithe, with sandy hair and stormy blue eyes. He watched Bucky approach, noting his every movement with his sharp eyes.

Clint Barton watched Bucky approach, no fear showing in his eyes. There weren't many agents in SHIELD who could go up against the Winter Soldier, and even fewer who wanted to. _In fact, _he thought, _it might just be me, Nat, and Sam. _Clint grinned. _Maybe not the only ones who can, just the only ones crazy enough to. _But he really wasn't scared. Bucky was incredibly careful with that metal arm of his, always remembering that one swing could easily crush someone's skull.

"Ready?" Bucky called, shifting into an attack position.

"Always," Clint called back.

They stared each other down for a minute, watching and judging, waiting for the other to make the first move. After a tense moment, Bucky charged, swinging his silver arm up to Clint's face as a distraction, and aiming his other fist for the archer's stomach. Clint dodged both of them, moving with almost inhuman speed, then aimed a chop at Bucky's neck. He raised his silver arm and blocked it, countering with a hit towards Clint's neck, even as he dodged another punch. They broke apart, circling each other again, neither even breathing hard. Clint charged this time, trying to sweep Bucky's legs out from underneath him, but Bucky countered, knocking Clint off his feet. He rolled, avoiding Barnes' following attack, then launched himself upward and back to his feet, crashing into Bucky, off balancing him, and sending them both back onto the floor.

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><p>When both their rooms turned out to be empty, Natasha Romanoff tried the training center, and she was not disappointed. She walked in to see Clint crashing into Barnes, knocking them both to the floor. The two assassins rolled, fighting to get back to their feet.<p>

"You two realize that our briefing's in ten minutes, right?"

"Yep," Clint called from the mat, not pausing his fight with Barnes.

"Coulson's going to be here, and you know how Sam feels about you being late when the brass is around."

Bucky sighed, and offered Clint a hand up. "Draw?"

"Sure." Clint took Bucky's metal hand and let him drag him to his feet. Barnes really was getting better at controlling his strength. He didn't even pull Clint off his feet this time.

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><p>The three assassins walked easily together through the halls to the briefing room. As usual, there were very few agents on the second floor of the wing of the Chicago SHIELD base. The building's wing was designed as a fallback point, somewhere that could be locked down and easily defended or escaped from, but as most of the time there was no crisis warranting an escape, it had been converted. The first floor was shared, with another garage, labs, interrogation room and holding cells, a simulator, and another amory. The two-story training center, containing a firing range (and an archery range that Clint built) was also shared, but it tended to clear out when one of the assassins was present. The second floor had been taken over by Clint, Natasha, and Sam when they had first been transferred. Their rooms were there, along with a briefing room, a kitchenliving area, Sam's office, and the official fallback point. The fallback point contained a temporary infirmary/first-aid center and a command center. While the second story wasn't officially off-limits, agents generally avoided it, not wanting to run into one of the assassins.

Special Agent Sam Ross was waiting for them in the briefing room, files already spread out on the table. Sam was their handler, their mentor, their confident, and their friend. He was the one who had pulled Clint out of his previous life and into SHIELD, training him and teaching him to be alive again. They were family, as close as two could get without sharing blood. Sam had fought for Natasha, and more recently Bucky, taking responsibility for them as their handler. He was the patriarch of their misfit family, leading the band of assassins that most people feared like it was no different from heading a normal SHIELD task force.

"Coulson's late?" Clint asked incredulously, taking his seat next to Sam at the table. "That man could be dead and he'd still find some way to make it to a meeting on time."

Sam looked at him and grinned. "Meeting's not for another five minutes."

Natasha huffed a laugh, seeing the reasoning behind Sam's logic. If he had called them there at the exact time of the meeting, Clint would have found some way to be late.

Sam rose, walking to the side table. The 43 year-old man moved with a pronounced limp, the product of a mission gone very far south. His short cropped black hair was beginning to be streaked through with small amounts of silver, which he teased Clint for endlessly, blaming the lighter hairs on all of his archer's impulsive actions and close calls.

He returned to the table with several cups of coffee, which he handed out specifically to his team, each cup made differently. Clint proceeded to swallow his, ignoring the scalding liquid in an attempt to get the caffeine into his system quicker. Sam noticed this, and sighed inwardly. Last night had been rough, Clint getting almost no sleep thanks to the nightmares that plagued him. Sam slid his cup over to the archer, who took it with a nod of thanks.

Phil Coulson walked through the door at exactly 11:30 am. "Good morning, Ross, Barton, Romanoff, Barnes," he said to each person before sitting down at the head of the table, pulling his own manila file folder out of his bag.

"Morning, Coulson," echoed around the room.

"Drink that coffee." Coulson ordered. "You all sound dead tired. I need you all alert for tonight."

"Where will we be?" Bucky asked, flipping through the file. It was full of names and faces, many recognizable as prominent figures in the government.

"The White House New Year's Eve party. We have reason to fear there will be an assassin present, and since Director Fury will be attending, we want people there watching him."

"But it's the White House," Sam protested. "No one gets into the White House."

Clint smirked. "I don't know, Sam. I can think of two people in this room who could probably pull it off."

"He has a point," Natasha said, turning to Bucky. "We probably could pull it off, couldn't we, Barnes?"

They all laughed as Clint scowled, and Sam lightly slapped his back. "Don't feel bad, Hawk. Its just that they probably have the air ducts monitored."

Even Clint grinned at that one.

"But back to a serious note," Sam said, the grin fading off his face, "do we know the assassin that will be there tonight?"

Coulson shook his head. "We don't know very much, just that there has been a lot of chatter about the possibility of a hit going down tonight. We don't know the target, we don't know that assassin or the organization sending that assassin. Which is why I want the three of you there. You know assassins, you'll know what to look for. You'll be in formal wear," he nodded to Clint and Natasha, "and you'll be dressed up like a guard, Barnes."

Clint groaned. He hated tuxes.

"We'll talk more on our way out. Get ready. Take off is at 12 o'clock sharp." Coulson stood, and everyone mirrored him. "This isn't just about keeping Fury safe. There are many important people on the guest list, many people whose death could throw things into chaos."

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><p><em>Thanks as always for reading! Please comment, let me know what you think! I'll get you all chapter three as soon as humanly possible!<em>


	3. Deep Down In That Darkness

_Hello everyone! Sorry for the wait. Here's Chapter 3. I know there's not a whole lot of action, but I want you guys to get to know Stryker better. So, without further ado: _

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><p><strong>December 31. 12:01 pm<strong>

Kane was furious. The only available combat helicopter was grounded by mechanical problems, and currently Kane was down on the tarmac, yelling at the mechanics, trying to intimidate them into fixing the helicopter faster.

So I sat on the roof and watched them. I was in my full combat gear, the tight bandelier full of small pockets and sheaths, knives and spare bullets and small, easily concealed guns, and many other weapons. My hands were gloved in tight-fitting leather, brass knuckles implanted into them. My helmet sat next to me, a black metal, high-tech thing that covered my entire head. The area around my eyes was black tinted, until I turned on the night vision or heat sensitive modes, when the glass glowed red.

When I put it on, I wouldn't be a human any longer. I would be an eagle, a falcon, a hunter, a killer.

I would be what everyone saw me to be.

I pulled up my legs from where they were dangling over the edge of the roof, and drew them up to my chest, wrapping my arms around them and laying my chin on my knees. The base was far off the beaten path, surrounded for miles and miles by forest. Birds flew, free, over the trees, alighting wherever they pleased. A young, tan doe stepped out of the forest on the far side of the flight area, only to be scared back into the safety of the trees by Kane's shout.

A noise behind me prompted me to turn, fluidly rising and drawing a blade from my belt. A young man was coming out the door to the roof, cigarette in hand, head turned and laughing at something the woman behind him had said. When the agent turned and saw me, our eyes met briefly and he quieted, fear spreading on his face. The woman stopped behind him, her eyes widening. The man quickly glanced away to look at anything else. They were both frozen, not sure how to react, what to say.

"Sorry, Agent." The man said, hesitantly. When I gave no response but to turn away, he and his friend quickly ran back down the stairs, closing the roof door behind them.

With a sigh, I sat again. That was my life. Kane was the only person here who was not afraid of me in some way, the only one who would willingly talk to me. But Kane was no friend. I had no reason to believe he cared at all for me, except to see if I could run another mission.

And now I was going after the Winter Soldier. I knew very little about him, but his name was always floating around the base. He was a legend. And now I was going to kill him. What had prompted him to turn? To run and leave his life with our organization behind? To my knowledge he had never been housed in this base, but that didn't stop me from feeling some sort of connection with him. The Winter Soldier and I, our stories were the same. Both rescued by Hydra, both given new purpose in life. Both fighters. He wouldn't go down easily, but he would go down. Tonight, the traitor would die. Which is why all this talk of connection between us had to stop. Because, in the end, I would stand alone against him. I will stand alone and he will die.

I will always stand alone.

The people here feared me. And I admit I gave the fair reason to.

My memory only goes back five years. Everything before that, I either don't know or only know what Kane has told me. And he told me that five years ago, a mission went seriously wrong. I was shot out of the sky. The doctors managed to bring me back from the brink of death, but they couldn't save my memory. After several weeks in a coma, I had woken with no idea of who I was or where I was. Kane had filled me in with what he knew of my history. I was abandoned at a very early age, and Hydra took me in, raised me, and, when I showed promise, trained me as an assassin. I am told I felt like Hydra was my family.

After the mission, though, things changed. People avoided me, especially after what Kane called "my incident." I was walking through the halls, just wandering, when suddenly I felt like my eyes had been opened. Everything seemed to became clear, and I thought I knew that things were wrong. These people were my _enemies_. It made perfect sense at the time, but now the details of what I thought are fuzzy or non-existent, or else trying to remember them threatens a mental attack. After suffering a few of those trying to remember, I gave up. The doctors say it was some sort of repercussion from the brain damage I sustained during the mission. What caused it, I can't say, but what it caused, that I remember perfectly. I attacked the guard walking through the hall, and used his gun to kill seven other Hydra agents, and injure at least a dozen, before I was subdued by a bullet to the leg, a taser, and a sleeping dart.

I was in the hospital for at least a week while the doctors tried to fix my head so that something similar didn't happen again. Kane said it wasn't my fault, that everything was forgiven and forgotten. But he could speak for himself. The day I was released from the hospital, a Hydra agent came after me, and ambushed me. I was still weak from a week of bed rest, and he almost overpowered me. Almost. I managed to knock him out. Later, I learned his brother had been one of the guards I had killed. He disappeared from the hospital one night, and no one knows where he went.

After that, I felt like I was walking around with a huge neon sign on my back that blared "DANGEROUS." People stopped talking to me in the halls, stopped meeting my eyes, stopped acknowledging me expect when they absolutely had to. Mine was a lonely existence, but it was all I knew. So I kept my head down and dealt with it.

I sat up there on the roof, just staring out at the forest, the clouds moving through the sky, the birds flying. I tried to let some of that peace flow into my being, tried to calm myself, to stop thinking and just _be._ Kane ruined that with his comm.

"Stryker, helicopter's up. Get yourself down here."

I sighed and stood up, pulling my helmet on over my head. _Be what they expect you to be. _I took a running leap and threw myself off the roof.

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><p>The Winter Soldier came into Hydra missing an arm, so they replaced it with one of the most advanced prosthetics ever created. I came into Hydra with all my limbs but nothing special about me, so they gave me something that would define me.<p>

They gave me wings.

The black metal appendages unfurled out of my back through the slits in my shirt and jacket. They were around ten feet in diameter, and they caught the air and propelled me upward. I soared over the forest, the other birds scattering, before I banked and came down lightly on the tarmac. My wings folded neatly into the implants by my shoulder blades, smooth and flat like they weren't even there.

Kane was standing by the the door inside the copter. The rotors were already turning. I jumped inside and sat down in my seat behind the copilot. Kane sat across from me behind the pilot. Our helicopter was combat-ready, but also stealthy. It was disguised as a private helicopter, and registered under the name of some rich man who supported Hydra. The inside was fancy, with fake wood paneling and comfortable seats. A cursory glance would reveal nothing suspicious, but a close go-over would show that hitting the panel over Kane's head in a specific spot would open up a small armory of guns and knives and flashbangs. Gas masks were under the seats. A button next to the copilot's left hand would open a hatch under the helicopter and draw out a machine gun. Hydra believed in always being prepared.

I sat back and got comfortable. The flight to DC would take around 70 minutes, so I closed my eyes and tried to get some sleep. Tonight was going to be a long night.

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><p><em>As always, thank for reading! Next chapter will feature our favorite merry band of assassins. Reviews make me happy! And happy writers get chapters out quicker...<em>


	4. Face That Fire

_So, here goes. I really don't have much to say except thank you to those who reviewed and followed and favorited and read...you guys are great. That being said, enjoy:_

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><p><strong>December 31. 12:57 pm<strong>

For Clint, it was always a little strange to be riding in a Quinjet that he wasn't piloting. He sat in the back, behind the pilot. The plane hit a little turbulence, and Clint stiffened like he was about to jump up and take control of the plane. Sam smiled from his seat behind the copilot, and Natasha elbowed him, grinning. "Nervous?"

He met her green eyes and forced himself to relax. "I just don't know the pilot."

"Well, you know the jet's fine. You did your own pre-flight eval, right?"

She knew the answer. Her partner refused to fly in anything he hadn't checked first. It annoyed pilots to no end when he showed up before takeoff to check every part of the plane. Sometimes Natasha swore his pre-flight checklist was even longer than the pilot's. And God forbid he ever found something wrong. Once, Clint had technically hijacked a jet by refusing to let the pilot fly it, citing a missing bolt as a sign of the pilot's incompetence, and, since the mission was time sensitive, elected to fly himself and Natasha instead of waiting for a different pilot. Boy, had Sam been pissed.

"We'll be landing in about five minutes." The pilot's voice crackled over the intercom, startling everyone. Bucky sat straight up from where he had been sleeping in his seat, suddenly completely awake.

"Morning, Buck," Clint says, leaning forward to see the Soldier past Natasha. "Nice of you to join us."

Bucky stretched. "What'd I miss?" he asked, yawning.

"Ah, not much. Just the game plan for tonight. But don't worry, I'm sure you'll catch on. You're good at figuring things out spur of the moment."

Somehow, in the past six months since Bucky had joined SHIELD, Clint was the only one who had gotten through to him. The two joked around and messed with each other like old friends, and while Bucky wasn't quite there yet with anyone else, Clint had managed to get him on first name basis. Sure, Natasha got along greatly with the newest member of their team, but the archer had found a way to connect with Barnes.

Coulson looked up from the file he was reviewing. "You didn't miss anything important, Barnes. Just some talk of names. You're going to be Secret Service Agent Thomas Larkin. Barton's going to be Jack Falder, a good friend and business associate of Fury's. Romanoff's Mary Sellers, former aide to the president."

Bucky nodded, committing the names and occupations to memory.

Sam shot a pointed look at his archer. "And I'm Steven Lewis, wounded Army Veteran," he growled.

From the exasperated looks aimed at Sam from all around the cabin, Bucky could tell this was an on-going debate.

Sam glared right back. "The minute something happens, it's going to be a madhouse. Lots of rich, famous people all thinking there's someone gunning for them. You need someone inside to coordinate. And an extra set of eyes is always useful."

"That's what cameras are for, Sam." Clint knew that he was fighting a losing battle.

"And all the Secret Service Agents, FBI agents, NCIS agents, personal bodyguards, and every single other person with a badge and a gun? Are you going to stop and organize them? Make sure they realize who the bad guys is and don't shoot at you?"

"No offense, Sam, but you're not exactly in peak fighting condition."

Natasha stared right back as Sam moved his glare from Clint to her. "I won't be fighting, will I? I'll leave that to the three of you."

Clint sighed. "If you get shot, I swear I'll make your life hell. You'll never hear the end of it."

The threat in his words was tempered by the level of worry and care his tone carried. Normally, Clint hid all emotion, but where Sam was concerned, all bets were off.

"I can take care of myself, kid." Sam said gently, leaning forward to put a hand on Clint's shoulder. "I'll be fine."

The archer nodded and Sam sat back. It was rather amusing for him to see the tables turned. Usually it was Sam who worried about Clint rushing into some mission headfirst, terrified that his agent would come back on a stretcher. Which of course had happened. A lot.

The pilot's voice came over the intercom again. "Hold on everybody. We're coming in for a landing."

The forward motion of jet ceased and everyone leaned to the left as the pilot circled to decrease their momentum, bringing the plane into a hover over the landing pad. They lowered and landed with a faint bump. The rear hatch opened and Barton was the first one off.

They all stepped onto the flight deck of the Helicarrier, and made their way to the bridge, where Fury waited for them. Coulson left to go find someone.

He greeted them. "I assume Coulson has explained everything to you."

Sam nodded. "We've all been briefed."

"Good." Fury turned back to the mass of agents controlling various parts of the ship. "We're over DC now. Party doesn't start till eight, be ready to go and on the flight deck by 7:30."

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><p>As they were all heading to the Special Operations Center to get ready, Coulson reappeared. "Agent Barnes, there's someone here who would like to see you."<p>

Bucky looked to his partners. "I'll meet you at the SOC." They nodded, and Bucky thought he detected worry, and maybe even a little guilt in Clint's response.

"Take your time, Buck. We'll find you later."

So maybe names weren't the only thing he missed during his nap on the flight.

"Who's wants to see me?" He asked, turning to Coulson. His eyes skipped right over Coulson to land on the man standing behind him. _Damn you, Clint. _

Steve Rogers was dressed in civilian clothes, but even without his Captain America uniform he was easily recognizable. There was a certain air about him that just screamed _soldier._ But it was his expression, the determination and worry and care in his face that reminded Bucky of the short, skinny Steve he grew up with.

Coulson left with a soft, "I'll leave you two be."

"Hey, Buck," Steve said warily, unsure of how the man in front of him would react. Bucky looked better than the last time he had seen him, before he left for Chicago with Barton and Romanoff in September. He looked like he was finally getting some sleep and eating again, which Steve contributed to Barton's amazing cooking. His hair wasn't as long, raggedly at jaw-length instead of shoulder, but it looked as if it had been hacked off with a knife. Which, knowing Bucky, was entirely possible.

"How're you holding up?" Bucky still hadn't met his eyes.

"Fine."

They lapsed into an awkward silence.

Steve was still coming to terms with Winter Soldier Bucky. When they were growing up, no silence had ever been awkward. They had always had something to talk about, something to discuss or argue over or debate. Since Bucky had gone to Chicago, they had exchanged a handful of letters. When Steve was ten and Bucky had gone to camp, his friend had written him at least once a day, but more often he sent out two or three letters, detailing everything he had done, trying to send the camp home to Steve through writing. Steve had replied in kind. He didn't expect Bucky to write to him now with the same vigor, but he had expected more. Especially now, in this time, where there were cell phones and e-mail and countless other ways to communicate rapidly.

"Look, Buck, I can't help you if you won't talk to me."

"_Help_ me?" The assassin's voice was icy.

"Yeah, help you. You're struggling. Barton, Romanoff, they might not be able to see it, but I know you. And I know what it's like to wake up and have no idea what's going on around you, to not have a clue what happened in the last seventy years. I know what it's like to be lost and scared and confused. I've already gone through all of that. So let me help you get through it, Bucky. Please."

"I can get by on my own."

Steve smiled slightly. "The thing is, you don't have to."

Bucky finally looked up and met his old friend's eyes, recognition showing in his face. "That was us. Outside...an apartment...your apartment? I followed you home after...after..."

"My mother's funeral." Steve said softly, but his smile widened. "Memory coming back?"

"Bits and pieces here and there."

"Well, you call me if you need help deciphering it." There was a brief silence, still nowhere near the comfortable silences they used to share, but a little less awkward than before. "Look, I know we both have missions, so I'll let you be. Just...stay in touch, okay, Bucky?" Steve moved forward and clapped a hand on Bucky's shoulder. "Because I'm with you to the end of the line." He smiled softly, then Steve was gone, leaving Bucky alone in the hallway.

_Why does that man have to be so damn good_?

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><p>The first thing Clint saw when Bucky strode into the room was the murderous look on his face. He jumped up from where he was sitting on the floor next to Natasha. "All her idea!"<p>

Natasha didn't move but to glare at her partner. "Don't you dare try to pin this all on me, предатель. You had a hand in setting this up too."

Bucky glared at both of them. "You had no right. No right at all."

Natasha stood, and moved toward Bucky. "You needed to talk to him. And he's been asking about you."

"I would have talked to him."

"When?" She challenged him.

"On my _own_ time!" He snarled.

Clint stepped between them, arms keeping them apart. They looked like they were about to resort to blows. "Whoa, guys." He looked to Romanoff, communicating with her in that silent way that they were so good at. "Natasha?"

She glared at him, but left the room.

Clint turned to Bucky. "You were avoiding him. Admit it."

Bucky slid down the wall to sit on the floor, drawing his knees up to his chest and putting his head in his hands. Clint looked around the room, making sure the Special Operations Center was empty, then he crossed to the door and locked it. No one had to see the Winter Soldier at his weakest.

He crossed back to where Bucky sat and crouched down next to him. No one said anything until Bucky broke the silence.

"I've been avoiding him."

"Why?"

"Because he's not looking for me!" Bucky exploded with weeks of pent up anger and frustration and desperation. "He's looking for James Buchanan Barnes, his old friend, and I'm not that person, not anymore! Steve thinks that his old friend is in here somewhere-" Bucky tapped his head. "-but he's not. That man died when he fell off the cliff. He's _dead_, Barton, but Steve refuses to see it. He keeps looking for him in me, convinced that some day my memory will fix itself and he'll get his old friend back."

"And that's not going to happen?" Clint asked gently.

"No, because the Winter Soldier has seen things and done things that the old Bucky could never even _dream_ of, let alone comprehend. I've _changed_, and I can't go back. I can't be the person he wants me to be!"

"Then tell him that."

"Would he understand?"

Clint smiled. "Hasn't he gone through the same thing? The little kid from Brooklyn you told me about? Is he still around? Steve's changed too, Bucky. I know he didn't have the same ride to the present that you had, but he'll understand. Trust me."

"Not today. We need to concentrate on the mission."

"Not today." Clint stood and offered Bucky a hand. He took it with his metal hand and Clint pulled him up. "But soon. C'mon, let's get you ready for tonight."

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><p><em>To be honest, I had no intention of putting Steve in here...he just kind of appeared while I writing. So who knows who else will show up?<em>

_Please review! _


	5. If You're Scared, Don't Show It

_Hi everyone! Sorry for the delay in uploading, this chapter took forever. (Which hopefully you'll notice due to the increased word count.) Thank you to all who have read and reviewed! You guys make me so happy!_

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><p><strong>December 31. 1:18 pm<strong>

The helicopter ride was dull, with little to do but rest and study the map of the White House and the positioning of the guards, which one of Hydra's many moles had provided. The party itself was to be held in the East Room, with dinner in the State Dining Room. Guests would have access to both the North and South Porticos, with their entrance and exit point being the North one. The Red, Green, and Blue Rooms were also open. As always, there were snipers on the roof and armed guards at the door and around the perimeter. The Diplomatic Room, underneath the Blue Room, would serve as a staging point for all Secret Service agents and guards in the White House. Extra men would be there, ready to jump into the party at a moment's notice, and the Secret Service would have other agents staged all over the building.

This was not going to be easy.

I traced the air ducts and memorized where the vents opened, hoping I could use them to get around unnoticed. I also marked where each camera was, trying to figure out a route through the building that would keep me in the camera's blind spots.

My eyes hovered over the Situation Room, where the cameras would be monitored and security would be coordinated. It would be fully staffed tonight, with everyone watching out for anyone like me, anyone coming to cause harm. Normally, I might try to disable this room first, then go after my target, but tonight that wasn't an option. I would only get one shot at this, and if that failed, I would bring everyone with a gun down on me. There would be no second chance. The minute my target went down, all hell was going to break loose. There will be no clean get away, only me flying as fast as possible to escape.

The helicopter landed with a soft bump on the ground. I stowed the map in one of my many pockets, grabbed my helmet, and exited the chopper. The pilot had landed on the small, heavily wooded Offutt Island in the Potomac River. It would be about a 15 mile flight down the Potomac, sticking to the heavily-wooded bank before I could get to the Boundary Channel, from where I could get over the Tidal Basin, and fly straight to the White House through the monuments. Under cover of darkness, of course. On New Year's Eve, in the cold, snowy weather I did not expect many people to be around. I would fly high enough to look like a bird anyway, and I was too small to register on radar. Getting there would be the easy part. The sun would set at 4:47 pm, and after half an hour I would be near invisible in my black uniform.

While Kane talked to someone over his comm and the pilot and copilot checked out the helicopter, I sat nearby on a fallen tree and rechecked my weapons and my gear, making sure nothing had broken or been misplaced since I had last gone over them. I screwed a new silencer onto one of my small semiautomatics and test-fired it at a tree behind me. The people standing by the helicopter all whipped around. I sighed, and unscrewed the tube from my gun. I've been waiting for years for Hydra scientists to perfect the silencer, but obviously they haven't made one that can completely silence a gun yet.

Kane stalked up to me and snarled. "What do you think you're doing!? Are you trying to give away our position?"

I didn't stand, just looked up and stared him straight in the eye. "You said this island was far enough away from everything that we could fly a _helicopter_ in and not be noticed. If you're not lying, a muffled gunshot isn't going to draw anyone."

"I don't think I like your tone, Agent." The helicopter pilots had fallen silent, watching us. One rested his hand on his sidearm, ready to defend his commander, no doubt.

I didn't answer, just stared at him.

He stared right back, then whispered quietly, "Kahlid Khandil. Bakhmala."

_What? _

I sat for a second. The name and place were achingly familiar...Then the memories came back. My eyes widened as I tried to stop them, knowing what was coming next, but I couldn't–

A flash of fire. Pain. So much pain. And a familiar man screaming my na–

I couldn't hold in a cry as white fire swept through my head, pushing every thought out. My vision failed, and my muscles went rigid. I fell off the log onto the forest floor, fighting the pain as it attacked my mind, holding my head in my hands even as my nails dug into my scalp.

As the pain faded I took shaking drags of air, trying to relax my body. My hands shook, hell, my whole body shook as I dragged myself into a sitting position. I couldn't meet Kane's eyes, but I knew he was staring at me.

"Remember your place, Agent." He said quietly, then he turned and walked back to the chopper. The pilots stayed silent, unsure of what just happened and how to react. I just sat there, staring at the ground, trying to relax. I closed my eyes and leaned back, breathing slowly in through my nose and out through my mouth, over and over, until my heartbeat slowed.

Remember my place. My place was Kane's weapon, to be loaded and fired at will, then to put the safety on and be put away, silent and needing no care until the next time someone needed to die.

Remember my place. To be silent and cooperative and not question orders, never talk back or divert from my mission. To go in, kill, come out again, one bullet or one knife for every enemy of Hydra, until I rid the world of those who opposed them–us. Blood spilled for the greater good.

Kane's word ran through my head, over and over, reminding me of everything I had ever been taught by Hydra. I barely moved until someone walked over to me, prompting me to look up warily, my stiff neck protesting. The copilot stood nervously in front of me, holding an MRE. I took it, never meeting his eyes, and he scurried back over to his friend as soon as the package left his hands.

I opened it up and prepared the meal, a simple but delicious warm beef stew. The temperature was slowly dropping, and though my uniform was well-insulated, I was beginning to feel the cold. There was bread, instant coffee, and a small pack of M&M's. I smiled and tucked the candy into my pocket for later. The stew was amazing, filling me with warmth, and allowing me to finally completely relax.

It's never a good idea to have a wandering mind on a mission. That's how the wrong people end up dead.

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><p>Kane and I sat in the heated helicopter until the sun went down. We went over every aspect of the mission: getting in, taking out the target, getting out. Rendezvous points and emergency rendezvous points. Houses that could act as temporary safe houses. Signals and communications and schematics rolled around in my head. After the mission, I would fly back to this island, or to one of the emergency rendezvous points if the island was empty or I couldn't get here. As always, I could expect no backup or emergency extractions. I was on my own the minute I left this island.<p>

I put on my helmet and activated the night vision mode. The glass glowed red, noticeable if you were staring me in the face but not bright enough to draw the gaze of a passerby. Or anyone staring out at the Potomac tonight.

When Kane's watch read 5:27 he nodded to me. I stepped out of the chopper, and started running. No goodbyes. No good lucks. I made it to the edge of the island in a matter of minutes, then took off over the water. It was cold and snowing, but there was very little wind, so I would get to the city in about half an hour, flying at a comfortable 30 mph.

No one had ever clocked my top speed. I had been caught going over 90 mph before, but I had never truly pushed myself to go as fast as possible. Thirty mph was a comfortable speed, one I could keep up for hours without being winded. I would arrive in DC no less tired than when I had left the island.

The flight was dull, as expected, spent flying close to the wooded bank or over the center of the river to avoid detection, but no one was looking for an assassin tonight. I passed party after party of people ready to celebrate the death of this year _together_, but I fought down the loneliness. I was an assassin. I had chosen this life. If it were to be one of few social bonds, so be it. I would sacrifice a normal life for the safety of Hyra, to fight for them and make this world a better place.

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><p>I entered the city as I futilely hoped to leave it: quiet and unnoticed. I slipped through the streets like a cat, light on my feet, sticking to shadows, all but invisible. the White House was brightly lit, people plowing the driveways and carrying in boxes of food. I could see men setting up fireworks, and on the roof, several snipers stalked back and forth, a killing eye watching everything.<p>

Several corners of the property were heavily wooded, and would offer an ideal entrance point. I chose the northeast corner, where the trees were the most concentrated. The fence was seven and a half feet tall, and there were cameras hidden along most of the perimeter. Thanks to a Hydra agent inside the building and the map he had gotten us, I knew where the blind spots on the wall were.

A jump, a quick flourish of wings, and I was over the fence, crouching on the other side. There would be no loose dogs tonight because of the party, but I could expect them to be patrolling with their handlers. I moved quickly through the grounds, sticking to shadows until I got to the East Wing. As promised, the inside man had left the side door open. I turned off the night vision and watched the camera inside as it rotated slowly left and right, timing myself. As it moved to look down the other end of the hallway, I slipped in through the door and positioned myself directly under the camera in the lobby. When it rotated to face the entrance again, I opened the second door on the right and entered another hallway, staying close to the left wall. I turned left, sprinted through a small room where an entire wall was a window, and entered the movie theater. The seats provided perfect cover, provided I bent almost double as I moved up toward the screen.

My goal was to get up to the storage area over the roof of the front porch. There were no cameras there, and as long as I stayed near the back, it was doubtful anyone would go there. Unfortunately, storage was on the fourth floor of the main building. Getting from here to there was going to be the trickiest part.

I waited for silence outside of the door, then darted through the visitor's foyer and into the first door on the right. It was a small coatroom, neat rods and hangers lining the walls. What I cared about was the vent near the baseboards. Four screws and I was in, pulling the vent back into place behind me, sticky putty adhering it back to the wall. The air duct went up thirty feet. It was narrow enough for me to keep my back pressed against the wall as I shimmied my way upwards. On the third floor, it branched off into a larger main duct, which I crawled along, in between two floors, until I could smell laundry detergent and soap. The Linen Room. I carefully pushed the vent open. There were no cameras in this room.

But there was a man. He gave a cry of surprise as I crawled out of the vent, a cry that was quickly cut off as I launched myself at him. One hand over his mouth, the other holding a knife to his throat. He struggled, but I was stronger.

"Is there anyone else around?" I hissed, loosening my hand just a little, but pressing the knife harder against his throat.

"N-no...just me!" He was shaking now, terrified.

"Is anyone expecting you? Are you assigned anywhere tonight?"

He was silent. I drew a line of red across his throat.

"Yes! I am due in the k-kitchen...after dinner–t-to take the napkins up to wash…" He trailed off, eyes wide and breathing fraggmented.

Leave no loose ends.

I twisted his neck in my hands, fast and sharp. There was a crack as it broke, and I felt the body become dead weight in my arms. There was no where to hide it except the huge laundry carts, lined up and ready to wash. I buried the body in the last cart, at the bottom and covered by dirty clothes, but first I pulled the cell phone out of its pocket.

There was a numerical passcode. I pulled some aluminum powder out of my pocket and lightly brushed it over the phone screen. There were fingerprints all over it, but the largest concentrations were over the numbers 4, 9, 2, and 7. I did the math in my head. Twenty-four possible combinations. And an iPhone locked you out for one minute after six wrong tries, five minutes for seven wrong tries, fifteen for eight wrong tries...I had to get it right.

7942. No. 4972. No. 4927. No 4792. Yes. The phone unlocked and I committed the passcode to memory. I looked through the text messages, pinpointing the ones with the most dialog. One name that kept coming up was Mary. I found her in the contacts, but only a cell number. Scrolling through the pictures, I found many of two people, one the man lying dead in the laundry, the other of a smiling blonde-haired woman. The blonde matched the contact photo of Mary. She was obviously important to him. The other name that kept coming up was Samuel. Their texts were mostly about work, and I was ready to bet Samuel was employed in the White House too. Hoping my information was correct, I composed two massages; one to Mary, one to Samuel, modeled after the ones he sent them:

_Hey babe, I'm going to be working later then I thought 2nite see you in the morning love ya!_

_Hey Sam, Mary got real sick she wants me to take her to the hospital cover for me? Thanks_

I waited in the Linen Room for much longer than I wanted to, waiting for the text replies. Mary's came in first, less than a minute after I sent it.

_ok :( to bad i was looking forward to tonight ;) have fun and tell sam happy new year _

Samuel's came in three minutes later.

_don't worry about it buddy i'll get those napkins for ya tell mary i hope she feels better text me from the hospital_

Satisfied that I had covered my tracks, I exited and turned left in the center hall, entering into storage. I made my way to the very back, where a few lone porthole windows provided enough light for me to see. I settled down to wait next by one, staying out of the faint beam of moonlight, and watched the snow drift gently past the window.

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><p><em>Well, that's all for now, folks. I hope you liked it, and I'm going to be getting the next chapter done ASAP. I've got some surprises I've been waiting for so long to write... <em>

_Reviews and comments and suggestions and you just saying random stuff in that big empty box is always appreciated! Seriously, it only takes a word to make me happy. _


	6. If I Stumbled

_So sorry for the wait! Things have been crazy lately, and as sad as it is writing was pushed to the back burner. Thanks again to all who have followed/faved/reviewed, you guys are the greatest!_

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><p><strong>December 31. 6:41 pm<strong>

"How's Bucky?" Natasha asked as she set her tray down on the table.

"Holding up alright, I guess. He said he wasn't hungry." Clint followed her and sat down. They were in the Mess Hall on the Helicarrier, at their usual table in the far back corner. Or, what had been their usual table, back when the airship had been their home. "It's weird," he said, looking around, "Sam or Bones not being here."

"Where _is _Sam?" She was used to their friend eating with them, especially right before an op.

"Talking to Fury about something. He wouldn't tell me what." Clint opened up several packets of sugar and dumped them and what seemed like a gallon of cream into his coffee.

"How you can drink coffee with spaghetti," Natasha said incredulously, "I will never know."

"Its _good_!" Clint protested, picking up his fork. "And it'll keep me awake tonight."

"Is there even coffee in that cup of cream and sugar?" Clint threw his napkin at her, and Natasha laughed. He couldn't suppress a smile as he picked up his cup and drank deeply, staring at her the entire time. She balled up the napkin he had thrown at her and tossed it back, scoring it in Clint's cup as he lowered it.

"Aw, coffee, no," he groaned, fishing the soggy paper out of his mug, "Why'd you have to go and ruin a perfectly good cup of coffee?"

"It's not ruined…" Natasha scoffed. "Just-"

Clint tore a piece off of his roll and tossed it towards her water glass. Natasha knocked it away, glaring at him, but Clint snatched it out of the air and threw it back at her.

"_Children_. Please don't play with your food," Sam ordered as he sat down next to Clint, tray in hand.

"Nat started it," Clint said, playing along with his friend's mock attempt at parenting. "I was just defending my coffee."

"If you can call that coffee," Natasha murmured, picking up her fork. "How was the meeting, Sam? Anything interesting?"

"Yeah," he sighed, picking up his bread to butter it. "Fury's trying to separate you two again."

"_What?_" Clint was loud enough that agents a few tables over glanced at them. "We had a _deal_. After that mess at the Triskelion we agreed we wouldn't be separated anymore."

"You," Sam pointed his knife at Clint, "had a deal with Acting Director Coulson. Not Director Fury, a point he has made very clear."

"We work better together!"

"But we're both good apart." Natasha didn't quail under Clint's glare. "In his eyes, separating us is the right move. Spread the talent around."

"That doesn't mean we have to accept it." Clint growled. He was getting protective, they could both see it. The idea that their family could be torn apart was something they had to live with everyday, working for an agency like SHIELD, but still a possibility that terrified Clint. It had happened a few months ago, Natasha being sent to work with Rogers, Clint and Sam heading to work in New York. "You have to fight him!"

"Of course I'm fighting him." Sam actually looked hurt. "You think I would let us be split up? I managed to postpone the discussion for a little while, hopefully enough time for us to convince him that we can't be separated."

They all ate in silence, each lost in their own thoughts. When finished, they got up and put their trays in the dirty bins, Clint swallowing the rest of his coffee before dropping the cup in after his tray. At the door, Sam moved the opposite way down the hall.

"Where're you going?" Clint asked.

Sam turned. "The SOC. I've got to get ready for tonight. I'll meet you two on the flight deck." He continued down the hall, somehow looking strong despite his limp.

Clint had turned away, hiding his expression from his mentor, but Natasha caught it. Worry shone in his eyes before he restored his mental walls, once again hiding all emotion.

"He's going to be alright, you know," Natasha said quietly as they started down the hall.

"Yeah," Clint responded, much more softly.

"Clint." Natasha stopped, turning her partner to face her. "Look at me." He did. "He will be _fine._ He's been keeping himself alive in situations like this for longer than you've been holding a bow." Her partner looked away. "I've never seen you like this. You _know_ Sam can take care of himself." He stayed silent. "Damn it, Clint, the two of you were partners for three _years_. What are you so worried about?"

He glanced around then dragged Natasha into an empty room, shutting the door behind him before turning to face her, keeping his voice low. "If the assassin hurts Sam, or goes after him, I'm not staying with Fury." There was absolute conviction in his voice. "If anything happens, Fury's no longer priority. I'll stand with Sam."

"That's no surprise. If anything, I would expect it."

"But it's conflict of interest!" Clint fought to keep his voice down. "If something happens and you or I abandon Fury, how are we going to convince him that we should stay together? He'll separate us based on that alone, and there's no way to fight him over it, because he'll be right! We _are _compromised by each other, but we've learned to make it work. Fury won't see it like that."

Natasha remained quiet. He was right, and they both knew it. In the seven years they'd worked together, they had always put each other before themselves, before the mission. It was conflict of interest, compromise, in every way, shape, and form, but their team had always pulled through. Tonight was different; tonight they wouldn't be in a foreign city where they could work it out themselves. No, tonight they would be under the watchful eye of their director, a man who had trained himself to see weakness.

She stepped forward and took his hands in her own. "Then we'll leave," his partner said simply.

"You would do that?" SHIELD wasn't just their home, it was their safe house. The agency protected them from all the governments and law enforcement groups around the globe who itched to drag the assassins in for trial, imprisonment, execution...the list went on and on. Leaving SHIELD would mean opening themselves up for capture and death in several countries.

"I would, Sam would, and I think you would, too." She knew him so well.

"If it meant staying together, then yes."

"So there you are." Natasha smiled. "If Fury ever separates us, we're gone."

Clint smiled softly. "You're amazing, you know that?" he said quietly.

"Well, one of us has to be the brains in the operation," she replied, releasing his hands to give him a friendly punch in the shoulder, which he dodged, instead wrapping her in a hug.

"I mean it," he said softly, leaning down to kiss her.

When they broke apart, Natasha grinned. "Feeling sentimental today?"

"Just didn't think I'd get the chance for it at midnight."

She laughed, and pulled away, heading for the door. "Come on, you. We've got a plane to catch."

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><p>The Quinjet was crowded, the assassins and Sam and Fury and a few guards all crushed inside the small plane. Bucky sat near the back, with Clint and Natasha, refusing to look at anyone. He had let his emotion win out earlier, the meeting with Steve shaking his walls, sending them crashing down. The Winter Soldier was a cold, calculating killer, but he had let one man reduce him to an emotional wreck, and he had let another see it. He had let someone see him break.<p>

Clint sensed his embarrassment, but could find no way to help him. He bumped the man's shoulder, waiting for him to look up. When Bucky did, Clint gave him a little half-smile. "Ready for the party?"

Bucky grinned back. "Party for you, maybe. I'm going to be on _guard_ while you all enjoy the food and drinks."

"No ones going to be _drinking _anything." Fury's distinctive voice echoed from the front of the plane, accompanied by the joking groans of the agents.

It helped to break the ice. Bucky sat up, recognizing Clint's attempt to put the events in the SOC behind them. Besides, he couldn't let this affect him, had to be sharp and vigilant for tonight. An assassin was a crafty, sly animal, and it took one to catch one. Anything else on his mind could lead to Fury's death.

As they were coming in for a landing, Clint leaned over to Natasha, whispering quietly, "бороться трудно, плевать пожара."

She didn't allow herself to smile at the familiar warped Russian phrase, one that she heard before every mission. She responded with her own traditional, "метко стрелять, сокол."

They landed on the lawn behind the White House, the jet coming down gently on the grass. Inside the plane, they all got into position, Fury, Sam, Clint, and Natasha surrounded by Bucky and the other guards, six in total. Together, in formation, they left the jet, hurriedly crossing the lawn to reach the entrance, climbing up the flight of stairs to the second-floor door.

They were met in the Entrance Hall by the executive leader himself, President Thomas Stewart. Fury extended his hand with a "Mr. President."

"Hello, Nick," Stewart replied, firmly shaking his hand. The president was a tall, silver-haired man in his late forties, a Navy veteran who carried himself militarily. He turned to Clint and Natasha, smiling professionally, and asked, "Introduce me to your companions, Nick?"

Fury stepped forward to clasp the man's shoulder. "Is there somewhere we can talk, Tom? _Privately_?"

Confusion flashed across Stewart's face, but only momentarily. He composed himself, his smile returning, and said, "Of course. My office." He turned and led the way.

"Fan out," Fury ordered quietly. "Larkin, with me." Recognizing his code name, Bucky followed the director and his "companions" to Stewart's office.

The room was large, decorated in shades of blue and with a desk in the center. The window looked out on the grounds, a beautiful view with trees offering a little shade inside. A few people and guards milled about, looking at this or that, gazing at the pictures on the walls and out the window.

"Excuse me, everyone." Stewart raised his voice and all turned to look at him. "Could I have the room for a moment, please?" Those more comfortable speaking the the man responded, while others looked chastised and quickly slipped out. "Thank you," Stewart called after, than turned to the Secret Service agents standing dutifully around the room. "If you would all step outside for a moment?" The lead agent made a move to protest, but Stewart raised his hand to silence him. "I will be perfectly safe in Director Fury's presence. Just for a moment, men." Looking reluctant and a little nervous, the agents filed out.

"You have no idea how hard it is to get some _privacy _around here." The President's voice was humorous, but Bucky could hear the truthful tone laying underneath. He sat in his desk, folding his hands and placing them on the lacquered wood, then fixing his gaze on Fury.

"SHIELD is expecting an assassination attempt tonight."

Stewart's expression did not waver or show fear; in the time of crisis, the military man he would always be showed through. "Who's the target?"

"Me."

The president nodded to the four agents standing beside Fury. "You all are SHIELD?"

"Agents Barnes, Ross, Barton, and Romanoff." Fury introduced them, and Bucky could see recognition in his eyes. Stewart knew of them. "They're undercover tonight to catch the assassin. Agent Romanoff is Mary Sellers, your ex-aid. Barnes is Secret Service, Barton and Ross are friends of mine."

"No, ex-aid won't work. There are people here tonight who would see through it." Stewart thought for a moment, then said, "You worked on my campaign."

Natasha nodded. "Yes sir."

The president looked to Fury again. "What do you know?"

"Not much." Fury grudgingly admitted. "Just that someone's coming tonight."

Stewart looked grim. "And you're sure you're the only target? I don't have to worry about anyone else tonight?"

"We're...sure." There was little conviction in Fury's tone.

Stewart sighed. "I don't like this, Nick."

"Neither do I, but there's nothing we can do about it. Just, keep an eye out, Tom."

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><p>The party was in full swing. Rich, high up political officers and benefactors wandered from room to room, drinking, eating, and talking. Secret Service agents kept a watchful eye on everyone, pulling tipsy party-goers away from priceless paintings and keeping them contained on the designated floors.<p>

Clint stayed by Fury's side, trying to avoid conversation and failing miserably. He was forced to feign interest in political and business talks, aiding in the conversation while keeping his sharp eyes trained on everyone and everything in the room. Every so often he would meet one of his teammate's eyes, both barely shaking their heads, no one seeing anything.

Sam found himself a group of veterans, those who were invited to this party so the president could say he invited veterans. They stuck out, awkwardly standing off to the side, drinking their rough military drinks, lost in the field of the rich and powerful. Sam fit right in, trading stories along with the rest, all the while looking for the mystery assassin.

Natasha strode from room to room, confidence radiating off of her. She stopped to converse with any and all, trying to find the one person she was looking for. No one caught her eye as suspicious, no one seemed ready to kill. She tried to hide the growing anxiety as the night plowed on without anyone showing. No gunshots, no sudden grunt of pain, no blood. The waiting and the inaction was slowly killing her.

Bucky stayed quietly on the edge of everything, occasionally asking a guest to remain in the party area or directing people to the bathroom. He saw the building through the Winter Soldier's eyes, every weak point in the defence, every opening and every way to get to the target. Drinks could have poison slipped into them, shots could be discreetly administered only to have the drug take affect hours later. He looked and looked, but as with all the others, he saw nothing.

And from her vantage point, Stryker watched.

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><p><em>Okay, confession time. There is well-establshed BlackHawk here. I promise in the future there will be stories explaining how that came to be. Speaking of stories, while this one is far from over, I need to start planning the next one. I'm stuck between two options: a post-Stryker story where Clint is deafened or a pre-Stryker origin story for Clint. There is a poll going on my profile, or feel free to leave your vote in the comment box. Which reminds me–that sad empty box below this is really hungry for your opinions about this story...Please Review! Thanks! <em>


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